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SPELL  OF 

AND  OTHER  VERSES 


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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

CASSIDY  FAMILY  PAPERS 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON 
AND  OTHER  VERSES 


The  Spell  of  the  Yukon 
and  Other  Verses 


BY 

ROBERT  W.  SERVICE 


NEW  YORK 

BARSE  &  HOPKINS 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1907,  by 
Edward  Stkrn  &.  Co..  Inc. 


CONTENTS 

THE  LAND  GOD  FORGOT lo 

The  lonely  sunsets  flare  forlorn, 

THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON    ........    ii 

I  wanted  the  gold,  and  I  sought  it, 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOURDOUGH  ....  15 

There  where  the  mighty  mountains  bare  their  fangs  unto 
the  moon, 

THE  THREE  VOICES 18 

The  waves  have  a  story  to  tell  me, 

THE  LAW  OF  THE  YUKON 20 

This  is  the  law  of  the  Yukon,  and  ever  she  makes  it  plain, 

THE  PARSON'S  SON     26 

This  is  the  song  of  the  parson's  son,  as  he  squats  in  his 
shack  alone, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD 30 

ran 

6 


Have  you  gazed  on  naked  grandeur  where  there's  nothing 
else  to  gaze  on, 


CONTENTS 

THE  LONE  TRAIL 33 

Ye  who  know  the  Lone  Trail  fain  would  follow  it, 

THE  PINES 35 

We  sleep  in  the  sleep  of  ages,  the  bleak,  barbarian  pines, 

THE  LURE  OF  LITTLE  VOICES 38 

There's  a  cry  from  out  the  loneliness — oh,  listen,  Honey, 
listen  ! 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  WAGE-SLAVE 40 

When  the  long,  long  day  is  over,  and  the  Big  Boss  gives 
me  my  pay, 

GRIN 43 

If  you're  up  against  a  bruiser  and  you're  getting  knocked 
about, 

THE  SHOOTING  OF  DAN  McGREW 45 

A  bvmch  of  the  boys  were  whooping  it  up  in  the  Malamute 
saloon, 

THE  CREMATION  OF  SAM  McGEE 50 

There  are  strange  things  done  in  the  midnight  sun, 

MY  MADONNA 55 

I  haled  me  a  woman  from  the  street, 

UNFORGOTTEN 56 

I  know  a  garden  where  the  lilies  gleam, 

THE  RECKONING 57 

It's  fine  to  have  a  blow-out  in  a  fancy  restaurant, 

6 


CONTENTS 

QUATRAINS 59 

One  said  :  Thy  life  is  thine  to  make  or  mar, 

THE  MEN  THAT  DON'T  FIT  IN 0.61 

There's  a  race  of  men  that  don't  fit  in, 

MUSIC  IN  THE  BUSH 63 

O'er  the  dark  pines  she  sees  the  silver  moonj 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  REMITTANCE  MAN,    66 

There's  a  four-pronged  buck  a-swinging  in  the  shadow  of 
my  cabin, 

THE  LOW-DOWN  WHITE 69 

This  is  the  pay-day  up  at  the  mines,   when  the  bearded 
brutes  come  down, 

THE  LITTLE  OLD  LOG  CABIN 71 

When  a  man  gets  on  his  uppers  in  a  hard-pan  sort  of  town, 

THE  YOUNGER  SON 73 

If  you  leave  the  gloom  of  London  and  you  seek  a  glowing 
land, 

THE  MARCH  OF  THE  DEAD ^^ 

The  cruel  war  was  over — oh,  the  triumph  was  so  sweet, 

"FIGHTING  MAC" 79 

A  pistol  shot  rings  round  and  round  the  world, 

THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  ANGEL 82 

An  angel  was  tired  of  heaven,  as  he  lounged  in  the  golden 


CONTENTS 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  RESTLESS  ONES  .   .    84 

We  couldn't  sit  and  study  for  the  law, 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 86 

It's  cruel  cold  on  the  water-front,  silent  and  dark  and  drear, 

COMFORT 90 

Say  !  You've  struck  a  heap  of  trouble, 

THE  HARPY 92 

There  was  a  woman,  and  she  was  wise  ;  woefully  wise  was 
she, 

PREMONITION 95 

'Twas  a  year  ago,  and  the  moon  was  bright, 

THE  TRAMPS 96 

Can  you  recall,  dear  comrade,  when  we  tramped  God's  land 
together, 

L'ENVOI 98 

You  who  have  lived  in  the  land. 


8 


TO 

G.  M 


THE  LAND  GOD  FORGOT 


The  lonely  sunsets  flare  forlorn 

Down  valleys  dreadly  desolate ; 
'The  lordly  mountains  soar  in  scorn 

As  still  as  deaths  as  stern  as  fate. 

The  lonely  sunsets  flame  and  die; 

The  giant  valleys  gulp  the  night; 
The  monster  mountains  scrape  the  sky, 

Where  eager  stars  are  diamond-bright. 

So  gaunt  against  the  gibbous  moon. 

Piercing  the  silence  velvet-piled, 
A  lone  wolf  howls  his  ancient  rune — 

The  fell  arch-spirit  of  the  Wild. 


O  outcast  land  f  O  leper  land! 

Let  the  lone  wolf  cry  all  express 
The  hate  insensate  of  thy  hand, 

Thy  hearf  s  abyssmal  loneliness. 


lO 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON 


1  wanted  the  gold,  and  I  sought  it; 

I  scrabbled  and  mucked  like  a  slave. 
Was  it  famine  or  scurvy — I  fought  it ; 

I  hurled  my  youth  into  a  grave. 
I  wanted  the  gold,  and  I  got  it — 

Came  out  with  a  fortune  last  fall, — 
Yet  somehow  life's  not  what  I  thought  it. 

And  somehow  the  gold  isn't  all. 


No!     There's  the  land.     (Have  you  seen  it  ?) 

It's  the  cussedest  land  that  I  know, 
From  the  big,  dizzy  mountains  that  screen  it 

To  the  deep,  deathlike  valleys  below. 
Some  say  God  was  tired  when  He  made  it  j 

Some  say  it's  a  fine  land  to  shun  ; 
Maybe ;  but  there's  some  as  would  trade  it 

For  no  land  on  earth — and  I'm  one. 

if 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON 

You  come  to  get  rich  (damned  good  reason); 

You  feel  like  an  exile  at  first ; 
You  hate  it  like  hell  for  a  season, 

And  then  you  are  worse  than  the  worst. 
It  grips  you  like  some  kinds  of  sinning ; 

It  twists  you  from  foe  to  a  friend  ; 
It  seems  it's  been  since  the  beginning ; 

It  seems  it  will  be  to  the  end. 


I've  stood  in  some  mighty-mouthed  hollow 

That's  plumb -full  of  hush  to  the  brim  ; 
I've  watched  the  big,  husky  sun  wallow 

In  crimson  and  gold,  and  grow  dim, 
Till  the  moon  set  the  pearly  peaks  gleaming. 

And  the  stars  tumbled  out,  neck  and  crop ; 
And  I've  thought  that  I  surely  was  dreaming. 

With  the  peace  o'  the  world  piled  on  top. 


The  summer — ^no  sweeter  was  ever  ; 

The  sunshiny  woods  all  athrill ; 
The  grayling  aleap  in  the  river. 

The  bighorn  asleep  on  the  hill. 
The  strong  life  that  never  knows  harness ; 

The  wilds  where  the  caribou  call ; 
The  freshness,  the  freedom,  the  famess — 

O  God  !  how  I'm  stuck  on  it  all. 

12 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON 

The  winter  !  the  brightness  that  blinds  you. 

The  white  land  locked  tight  as  a  drum. 
The  cold  fear  that  follows  and  finds  you, 

The  silence  that  bludgeons  you  dumb. 
The  snows  that  are  older  than  history, 

The  woods  where  the  weird  shadows  slant 
The  stillness,  the  moonlight,  the  mystery, 

I've  bade  'em  good-by — but  I  can't. 


There's  a  land  where  the  mountains  are  nameless, 

And  the  rivers  all  run  God  knows  where ; 
There  are  lives  that  are  erring  and  aimless. 

And  deaths  that  just  hang  by  a  hair ; 
There  are  hardships  that  nobody  reckons  ; 

There  are  valleys  unpeopled  and  still ; 
There's  a  land — oh,  it  beckons  and  beckons, 

And  I  want  to  go  back — and  I  will. 


They're  making  my  money  diminish ; 

I'm  sick  of  the  taste  of  champagne. 
Tliank  God  !  when  I'm  skinned  to  a  finish 

I'll  pike  to  the  Yukon  again. 
I'll  fight — and  you  bet  it's  no  sham-fight ; 

It's  hell ! — ^but  I've  been  there  before  ; 
And  it's  better  than  this  by  a  damsite — 

So  me  for  the  Yukon  once  more. 


THE  SPELL  OF  THE  YUKON 

There* s  gold,  and  it's  haunting  and  haunting; 

It's  luring  me  on  as  of  old ; 
Yet  it  isn't  the  gold  that  I'm  wanting 

So  much  as  just  finding  the  gold. 
It's  the  great,  big,  broad  land  'way  up  yonder, 

It's  the  forests  where  silence  has  lease ; 
It's  the  beauty  that  thrills  me  with  wonder, 

It's  the  stillness  that  fills  me  with  peace. 


14 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOURDOUGH 

There  where  the  mighty  mountains  bare  their  fangs  unto 

the  moon, 
There  where  the  sullen  sun-dogs  glare  in  the  snow-bright, 

bitter  noon. 
And   the  glacier-glutted  streams   sweep   down  at   the 

clarion  call  of  June. 

There  where  the  livid  tundras  keep  their  tryst  with  the 

tranquil  snows ; 
There  where  the  silences  are  spawned,  and  the  light  ot 

hell-fire  flows 
Into  the  bowl  of  the  midnight  sky,  violet,  amber  and 

rose. 

There  where  the  rapids  churn  and  roar,  and  the  ice-floes 

bellowing  run  ; 
Where  the  tortured,  twisted  rivers  of  blood  rush  to  the 

setting  sun — 
I've  packed  my  kit  and  I'm  going,  boys,  ere  another 

day  is  done. 
♦  4c  4:  }(:  4:  ♦ 

15 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOURDOUGH 

I  knew  it  would  call,  or  soon  or  late,  as  it  calls  the 

whirring  wings ; 
It's  the  olden  lure,  it's  the  golden  lure,  it's  the  lure  of 

the  timeless  things, 
And  to-night,  oh,  God   of  the  trails  untrod,  how  it 

whines  in  my  heart-strings  ! 


I'm  sick  to  death  of  your  well-groomed  gods,  your 
make-believe  and  your  show ; 

I  long  for  a  whiff  of  bacon  and  beans,  a  snug  shake- 
down in  the  snow ; 

A.  trail  to  break,  and  a  life  at  stake,  and  another  bout 
with  the  foe. 


With  the  raw-ribbed  Wild  that  abhors  all  life,  the  Wild 

that  would  crush  and  rend, 
I  have  clinched  and  closed  with  the  naked  North,  I 

have  learned  to  defy  and  defend ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  we  have  fought  it  out — yet  the 

Wild  must  win  in  the  end. 


I  have  flouted  the  Wild.  I  have  followed  its  lure,  fear- 
less, familiar,  alone ; 

By  all  that  the  battle  means  and  makes  I  claim  that 
land  for  mine  own  ; 

Yet  the  Wild  must  win,  and  a  day  will  come  when  I 
shall  be  overthrown. 

i6 


THE  HEART  OF  THE  SOURDOUGH 

Then  when  as  wolf-dogs  fight  we've  fought,  the  lean 

wolf-land  and  I ; 
Fought  and  bled  till  the  snows  are  red  under  the  reeling 

sky; 
Even  as  lean  wolf-dog  goes  down  will  I  go  down  and 

die. 


17 


THE  THREE  VOICES 

The  waves  have  a  story  to  tell  me, 
As  I  lie  on  the  lonely  beach  ; 

Chanting  aloft  in  the  pine-tops, 
The  wind  has  a  lesson  to  teach  ; 

But  the  stars  sing  an  anthem  of  glory 
I  cannot  put  into  speech. 

The  waves  tell  of  ocean  spaces, 
Of  hearts  that  are  wild  and  brave, 

Of  populous  city  places, 

Of  desolate  shores  they  lave. 

Of  men  who  sally  in  quest  of  gold 
To  sink  in  an  ocean  grave. 

The  wind  is  a  mighty  roamer ; 

He  bids  me  keep  me  free. 
Clean  from  the  taint  of  the  gold-lust, 

Hardy  and  pure  as  he  ; 
Cling  with  my  love  to  nature, 

As  a  child  to  the  mother-knee. 


THE  THREE  VOICES 

But  the  stars  throng  out  in  their  glory, 
And  they  sing  of  the  God  in  man ; 

They  sing  of  the  Mighty  Master, 
Of  the  loom  his  fingers  span, 

Where  a  star  or  a  soul  is  a  part  of  the  whole, 
And  weft  in  the  wondrous  plan. 

Here  by  the  camp-fire's  flicker, 

Deep  in  my  blanket  curled, 
I  long  for  the  peace  of  the  pine-gloom, 

When  the  scroll  of  the  Lord  is  unfurled, 
And  the  wind  and  the  wave  are  silent, 

And  world  is  singing  to  world. 


19 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  YUKON 

This  is  the  law  of  the  Yukon,  and  ever  she  makes  it 

plain  : 
''Send  not  your  foolish  and  feeble;    send   me   your 

strong  and  your  sane — 
Strong  for  the  red  rage  of  battle;    sane,  for  I  harry 

them  sore ; 
Send  me  men  girt  for  the  combat,  men  who  are  grit  to 

the  core ; 
Swift  as  the  panther  in  triumph,  fierce  as  the  bear  in 

defeat. 
Sired   of   a  bulldog   parent,    steeled    in   the    furnace 

heat. 
Send  me  the  best  of  your  breeding,  lend  me  your  chosen 

ones; 
Them  will  I  take  to  my  bosom,  them  will  I  call  my 

sons ; 
Them  will  I  gild  with  my  treasure,  them  will  I  glut 

with  my  meat ; 
But   the  others — the  misfits,  the  failures — I   trample 

under  my  feet. 

30 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  YUKON 

Dissolute,  damned  and  despairful,  crippled  and  palsied 

and  slain, 
Ye  would  send  me  the  spawn  of  your  gutters — Go  ! 

take  back  your  spawn  again. 


**Wild  and  wide  are  my  borders,  stern  as  death  is  my 

sway; 
From   my  ruthless  throne  I   have  ruled  alone   for  a 

million  years  and  a  day ; 
Hugging   my    mighty   treasure,    waiting   for   man   to 

come, 
Till  he  swept  like  a  turbid  torrent,  and  after  him  swept 

— the  scum. 
The  pallid  pimp  of  the  dead-line,  the  enervate  of  the 

pen, 
One  by  one  I  weeded  them  out,  for  all  that  I  sought 

was — Men. 
One  by  one  I  dismayed  them,  frighting  them  sore  with 

my  glooms ; 
One  by  one  I  betrayed  them  unto  my  manifold  dooms. 
Drowned  them  like  rats  in  my  rivers,  starved  them  like 

curs  on  my  plains, 
Rotted  the  flesh  that  was  left  them,  poisoned  the  blood 

in  their  veins ; 
Burst  with  my  winter  upon  them,  searing  forever  their 

sight. 
Lashed  them  with  fungus-white  faces,  whimpering  wild 

in  the  night ; 

21 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  YUKON 

Staggering  blind  through  the  storm-whirl,  stumbling 

mad  through  the  snow, 
Frozen  stiff  in  the  ice-pack,  brittle  and  bent  like  a  bow ; 
Featureless,   formless,  forsaken,   scented  by  wolves  in 

their  flight, 
Left  for  the  wind  to  make  music  through  ribs  that  are 

glittering  white ; 
Gnawing  the  black  crust  of  failure,  searching  the  pit 

of  despair. 
Crooking  the  toe  in   the  trigger,  trying    to   patter  a 

prayer ; 
Going  outside   with  an    escort,   raving   with   lips   all 

afoam. 
Writing  a  cheque  for  a  million,   driveling   feebly  of 

home; 
Lost  like  a  louse  in  the  burning  ...  or  else  in  the 

tented  town 
Seeking  a  drunkard's  solace,  sinking  and  sinking  down; 
Steeped  in  the  slime  at  the  bottom,  dead  to  a  decent 

world. 
Lost   'mid    the   human    flotsam,    far   on    the    frontier 

hurled ; 
In  the  camp  at  the  bend  of  the  river,  with  its  dozen 

saloons  aglare. 
Its  gambling  dens  ariot,  its  gramophones  all  ablare ; 
Crimped  with  the  crimes  of   a  city,   sin-ridden   and 

bridled  with  lies. 
In  the  hush  of  my  mountained  vastncss,  in  the  flush  of 

my  midnight  skies. 

22 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  YUKON 

Plague-spots,  yet  tools  of  my  purpose,  so  natheless  I 

suffer  them  thrive, 
Crushing  my  Weak  in  their  clutches,  that   only  my 

Strong  may  survive. 


'*  But  the  others,  the  men  of  my  mettle,  the  men  who 

would  'stablish  my  fame 
Unto    its    ultimate    issue,    winning    me    honor,    not 

shame ; 
Searching  my  uttermost  valleys,  fighting  each  step  as 

they  go. 
Shooting  the  wrath  of  my  rapids,  scaling  my  ramparts 

of  snow ; 
Ripping  the  guts  of  my  mountains,  looting  the  beds  of 

my  creeks. 
Them  will  I  take  to  my  bosom,  and  speak  as  a  mother 

speaks. 
I  am  the  land  that  listens,  I  am  the  land  that  tjroods ; 
Steeped    in   eternal    beauty,    crystalline    waters    and 

woods. 
Long    have    I    waited     lonely,    shunned   as   a   thing 

accurst. 
Monstrous,  moody,  pathetic,  the  last  of  the  lands  and 

the  first ; 
Visioning   camp-fires   at   twilight,  sad  with  a  longing 

forlorn. 
Feeling  my  womb  o'er-pregnant  with  the  seed  of  cities 

unborn. 

23 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  YUKON 

Wild  and  wide  are  my  borders,  stern  as  death  is  my 

sway, 
And  I  wait  for  the  men  who  will  win  me — and  I  will 

not  be  won  in  a  day ; 
And  I  will  not  be  won  by  weaklings,  subtle,  suave  and 

mild, 
But  by  men  with  the  hearts  of  vikings,  and  the  simple 

faith  of  a  child ; 
Desperate,  strong  and  resistless,  unthrottled  by  fear  or 

defeat. 
Them  will  I  gild  with  my  treasure,  them  will  I  glut 

with  my  meat. 


"Lofty  I  stand   from   each   sister  land,  patient  and 

wearily  wise,' 
With  the  weight  of  a  world  of  sadness  in  my  quiet, 

passionless  eyes ; 
Dreaming  alone   of   a  people,  dreaming   alone  of  a 

day. 
When  men  shall  not  rape  my  riches,  and  curse  me  and 

go  away ; 
Making  a  bawd  of  my  bounty,  fouling  the  hand  that 

gave— 
Till  I  rise  in  my  wrath  and  I  sweep  on  their  path  and 

I  stamp  them  into  a  grave. 
Dreaming  of  men  who  will  bless  me,  of  women  esteem- 
ing me  good. 
Of  children  born  in  my  borders,  of  radiant  motherhood, 

34 


THE  LAW  OF  THE  YUKON 

Of   cities    leaping   to   stature,    of    fame   like    a    flag 

unfurled, 
As  I  pour  the  tide  of  my  riches  in  the  eager  lap  of  the 

world." 


This  is  the  Law  of  the  Yukon,  that  only  the  Strong 

shall  thrive ; 
That  surely  the  Weak  shall  perish,  and  only  the  Fit 

survive. 
Dissolute,  damned  and  despairful,  crippled  and  palsied 

and  slain. 
This  is  the  Will  of  the  Yukon, — Lo,  how  she  makes 

it  plain ! 


25 


THE  PARSON^S  SON 

This  is  the  song  of  the  parson's  son,  as  he  squats  in 

his  shack  alone. 
On  the  wild,  weird  nights,  when  the  Northern  Lights 

shoot  up  from  the  frozen  zone, 
And  if  s   sixty   below,   and  couched  in    the   snow   the 

hungry  huskies  moan  : 

*'  I'm  one  of  the  Arctic  brotherhood,  I'm  an  old-time 

pioneer. 
I  came  with  the  first — O  God  !  how  I've  cursed  this 

Yukon — but  still  I'm  here. 
I've  sweated  athirst  in  its  summer  heat,  I've  frozen  and 

starved  in  its  cold ; 
I've  followed  my  dreams  by  its  thousand  streams,  I've 

toiled  and  moiled  for  its  gold. 

**Look    at    my  eyes — been  snow-blind  twice;    look 

where  my  foot's  half  gone; 
And  that  gruesome  scar  on  my  left  cheek,  where  the 

frost-fiend  bit  to  the  bone. 

26 


THE  PARSON'S  SON 

Each  one  a  brand  of  this  devil's  land,  where  I've  played 

and  I've  lost  the  game, 
A  broken  wreck  with  a  craze  for  *  hooch, '  and  never  a 

cent  to  my  name. 

*'  This  mining  is  only  a  gamble  ;  the  worst  is  as  good  as 

the  best ; 
I  was  in  with  the  bunch  and  I  might  have  come  out 

right  on  top  with  the  rest ; 
With  Cormack,  Ladue  and  Macdonald — O  God  !  but 

it's  hell  to  think 
Of  the  thousands  and  thousands  I've  squandered  on 

cards  and  women  and  drink. 


*'  In  the  early  days  we  were  just  a  few,  and  we  hunted 

and  fished  around. 
Nor  dreamt  by  our  lonely  camp-fires  of  the  wealth  that 

lay  under  the  ground. 
We  traded  in  skins  and  whiskey,  and  I've  often  slept 

under  the  shade 
Of  that  lone  birch  tree  on  Bonanza,  where  the  first  big 

find  was  made. 


''We  were  just  like  a  great  big  family,  and  every  man 

had  his  squaw, 
And  we  lived  such  a  wild,  free,  fearless  life  beyond  the 

pale  of  the  law  ; 

27 


THE  PARSON'S  SON 

Till  sudden  there  came  a  whisper,  and  it  maddened  us 

every  man, 
And  I  got  in  on  Bonanza  before  the  big  rush  began. 

**  Oh,  those  Dawson  days,  and  the  sin  and  the  blaze, 

and  the  town  all  open  wide  ! 
(If  God  made  me  in  His  likeness,  sure  He  let  the  devil 

inside. ) 
But  we  all  were  mad,  both  the  good  and  the  bad,  and 

as  for  the  women,  well — 
No  spot  on  the  map  in  so  short  a  space  has  hustled 

more  souls  to  hell. 

**  Money  was  just  like  dirt  there,  easy  to  get  and  to 

spend. 
I  was  all  caked  in  on  a  dance-hall  jade,  but  she  shook 

me  in  the  end. 
It  put  me  queer,  and  for  near  a  year  I  never  drew  sober 

breath. 
Till  I  found  myself  in  the  bughouse  ward  with  a  claim 

staked  out  on  death. 

**  Twenty  years  in   the  Yukon,   struggling    along    its 

creeks ; 
Roaming  its  giant  valleys,  scaling  its  god-like  peaks ; 
Bathed  in  its  fiery  sunsets,  fighting  its  fiendish  cold — 
Twenty  years  in  the  Yukon    .    .    .    twenty  years — and 

I'm  old. 

28 


THE  PARSON'S  SON 

'*  Old  and  weak,  but  no  matter,  there's  *  hooch  '  in  the 

bottle  still. 
I'll  hitch  up  the  dogs  to-morrow,  and  mush  down  the 

trail  to  Bill. 
It's  so  long  dark,  and  I'm  lonesome — I'll  just  lay  down 

on  the  bed ; 
To-morrow  I'll  go  .   .  .  to-morrow  ...  I  guess  I'll 

play  on  the  red. 

"...  Come,  Kit,  your  pony  is  saddled.  I'm  wait- 
ing, dear,  in  the  court  .   .   . 

.  .  .  Minnie,  you  devil,  I'll  kill  you  if  you  skip  with 
that  flossy  sport  .   .   . 

.  .  .  How  much  does  it  go  to  the  pan.  Bill  ?  .  .  .  play 
up,  School,  and  play  the  game  .   .   . 

.  .  .  Our  Father,  which  art  in  heaven,  hallowed  be 
Thy  name  .   .   ." 

This  was  the  song  of  the  parsorC  s  son,  as  he  lay  in  his 

bunk  alone, 
Ere  the  fire  went  out  and  the  cold  crept  in,  and  his  blue 

lips  ceased  to  moan, 
And  the  hunger-maddened  malamutes  had  torn  him  flesh 

from  bone. 


29 


THE  GALL  OF  THE  WILD 

Have  you  gazed  on  naked  grandeur  where  there's  noth- 
ing else  to  gaze  on, 
Set  pieces  and  drop-curtain  scenes  galore, 
Big  mountains  heaved  to  heaven,  which  the  blinding 
sunsets  blazon. 
Black  canyons  where  the  rapids  rip  and  roar  ? 
Have   you  swept  the   visioned  valley  with  the  green 
stream  streaking  through  it, 
Searched  the  Vastness  for  a  something  you  have  lost  ? 
Have  you  strung  your  soul  to  silence  ?     Then  for  God's 
sake  go  and  do  it ; 
Hear  the  challenge,  learn  the  lesson,  pay  the  cost. 

Have  you  wandered  in  the  wilderness,  the  sage-brush 
desolation. 
The  bunch-grass  levels  where  the  cattle  graze  ? 
Have  you  whistled  bits  of  rag-time  at  the  end  of  all 
creation, 
And  learned  to  know  the  desert's  little  ways? 

30 


THE  GALL  OF  THE  WILD 

Have  you  camped  upon  the  foothills,  have  you  galloped 
o'er  the  ranges, 
Have  you  roamed  the  arid  sun-lands  through  and 
through  ? 
Have  you  chummed  up  with  the  mesa  ?     Do  you  know 
its  moods  and  changes  ? 
Then  listen  to  the  Wild — it's  calling  you. 

Have  you  known  the  Great  White  Silence,  not  a  snow- 
gemmed  twig  aquiver  ? 
(Eternal  truths  that  shame  our  soothing  lies.) 
Have  you  broken  trail  on  snowshoes  ?    mushed  your 
huskies  up  the  river, 
Dared  the  unknown,  led  the  way,  and  clutched  the 
prize  ? 
Have  you  marked  the  map's  void  spaces,  mingled  with 
the  mongrel  races. 
Felt  the  savage  strength  of  brute  in  every  thew  ? 
And  though  grim  as  hell  the  worst  is,  can  you  round  it 
off  with  curses  ? 
Then  hearken  to  the  Wild — it's  wanting  you. 

Have   you   suffered,  starved  and  triumphed,  groveled 
down,  yet  grasped  at  glory. 
Grown  bigger  in  the  bigness  of  the  whole  ? 
**  Done  things  "  just  for  the  doing,  letting  babblers  tell 
the  story. 
Seeing  through  the  nice  veneer  the  naked  soul  ? 

31 


THE  GALL  OF  THE  WILD 

Have  you  seen  God  in  His  splendors,  heard  the  text 
that  nature  renders  ? 
(You'll  never  hear  it  in  the  family  pew.) 
The  simple  things,  the  true  things,  the  silent  men  who 
do  things — 
Then  listen  to  the  Wild — it's  calling  you. 

They  have  cradled  you  in  custom,  they  have  primed 
you  with  their  preaching, 
They  have  soaked  you  in  convention  through  and 
through ; 
They  have  put  you  in  a  showcase;    you're  a  credit  to 
their  teaching — 
But  can't  you  hear  the  Wild  ? — it's  calling  you. 
Let  us  probe  the  silent  places,  let  us  seek  what  luck 
betide  us ; 
Let  us  journey  to  a  lonely  land  I  know. 
There's  a  whisper  on  the  night-wind,   there's  a  star 
agleam  to  guide  us, 
And  the  Wild  is  calling,  calling  ...  let  us  go. 


32 


THE  LONE  TRAIL 

Ve  who  know  the  Lone  Trail  fain  would  follow  iff 
Though  it  lead  to  glory  or  the  darkness  of  the  pit. 
Ye  who  take  the  Lone  Trail,  bid  your  love  good-by  ; 
The  Lone  Trail,  the  Lone  Trail  follow  till  you  die. 

The  trails  of   the  v/orld  be  countless,  and  most  of  the 

trails  be  tried ; 
You  tread  on  the  heels  of  the  many,  till  you  come 

where  the  ways  divide  ; 
And  one  lies  safe  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  other  is  dreary 

and  wan, 
Yet  you  look  aslant  at  the  Lone  Trail,  and  the  Lone 

Trail  lures  you  on. 
And  somehow  you're  sick  of  the  highway,  with  its  noise 

and  its  easy  needs. 
And  you  seek  the  risk  of  the  by-way,  and  you  reck  not 

where  it  leads. 
And  sometimes  it  leads  to  the  desert,  and  the  tongue 

swells  out  of  the  mouth, 
And  you  stagger  blind  to  the  mirage,  to  die  in  the 

mocking  drouth. 

33 


THE  LONE  TRAIL 

And  sometimes  it  leads  to  the  mountain,  to  the  light 

of  the  lone  camp-fire, 
And  you  gnaw  your  belt  in  the  anguish  of  hunger- 
goaded  desire. 
And  sometimes  it  leads  to  the  Southland,  to  the  swamp 

where  the  orchid  glows. 
And  you  rave  to  your  grave  with  the  fever,  and  they 

rob  the  corpse  for  its  clothes. 
And  sometimes  it  leads   to   the    Northland,    and   the 

scurvy  softens  your  bones. 
And  your  flesh  dints  in  like  putty,  and  you  spit  out 

your  teeth  like  stones. 
And  sometimes  it  leads  to  a  coral  reef  in  the  wash  of  a 

weedy  sea, 
And  you  sit  and  stare  at  the  empty  glare  where  the 

gulls  wait  greedily. 
And  sometimes  it  leads  to   an    Arctic  trail,  and  the 

snows  where  your  torn  feet  freeze, 
And  you  whittle  away  the  useless  clay,  and  crawl  on 

your  hands  and  knees. 
Often  it  leads  to  the  dead -pit ;  always  it  leads  to  pain  ; 
By  the  bones  of  your  brothers  ye  know  it,  but  oh,  to 

follow  you're  fain. 
By  your  bones  they  will  follow  behind  you,  till  the 

ways  of  the  world  are  made  plain. 

Bid  good- by  to  sweetheart^  bid  good-by  to  friend ; 
The  Lone  Trails  the  Lone  Trail  follow  to  the  end. 
Tarry  not,  and  fear  not,  chosen  of  the  true  ; 
Lover  of  the  Lone  Trail,  the  Lone  Trail  waits  for  you, 

34 


THE  PINES 

We  sleep  in  the  sleep  of  ages,  the  bleak,  barbarian 

pines ; 
The  gray  moss  drapes  us  like  sages^  and  closer  we  loclj 

our  lines, 
And  deeper  we  clutch  through  the  gelid  gloom  where 

never  a  sunbeam  shines. 

On  the  flanks  of  the  storm-gored  ridges  are  our  black 

battalions  massed ; 
We  surge  in  a  host  to  the  sullen  coast,  and  we  sing  in 

the  ocean  blast ; 
From  empire  of  sea  to  empire  of  snow  we  grip  our 

empire  fast. 

To  the  niggard  lands  were  we  driven,  *twixt  desert  and 

floes  are  we  penned  ; 
To  us  was  the  Northland  given,  ours  to  stronghold  and 

defend ; 
Ours  till  the  world  be  riven  in  the  crash  of  the  utter 

end; 

35 


THE  PINES 

Ours  from  the  bleak  beginning,  through  the  aeons  of 

death-like  sleep ; 
Ours  from  the  shock  when  the  naked  rock  was  hurled 

from  the  hissing  deep  ; 
Ours    through    the    twilight    ages    of   weary    glacier 

creep. 

Wind  of  the  East,  Wind  of  the  West,  wandering  to  and 

fro, 
Chant  your  songs  in  our  topmost  boughs,  that  the  sons 

of  men  may  know 
The  peerless  pine  was  the  first  to  come,  and  the  pine 

will  be  last  to  go  ! 

We  pillar  the  halls  of  perfumed  gloom ;  we  plume  where 

the  eagles  soar ; 
The  North-wind  swoops  from  the  brooding  Pole,  and 

our  ancients  crash  and  roar ; 
But  where  one  falls  from  the  crumbling  walls  shoots  up 

a  hardy  score. 

We  spring  from  the  gloom  of  the  canyon's  womb ;  in 

the  valley"  s  lap  we  lie  ; 
From  the  white  foam- fringe,  where  the  breakers  cringe  j 

to  the  peaks  that  tusk  the  sky^ 
We  climb,  and  we  peer  in  the  crag-locked  mere  that 

gleams  like  a  golden  eye. 

36 


THE  PINES 

Gain  to  the  verge  of  the  hog-back  ridge  where   the 

vision  ranges  free  : 
Pines  and  pines  and  the  shadow  of  pines  as  far  as  the 

eye  can  see ; 
A   steadfast  legion   of  stalwart   knights   in   dominant 

empery. 

Sun,    moon  and  stars  give  answer;     shall    we    not 

staunchly  stand 
Even  as  now,  forever,  wards  of  the  wilder  strand, 
Sentinels  of  the  stillness,  lords  of  the  last,  lone  land  ? 


Z7 


THE  LURE  OF  LITTLE  VOICES 

There's   a   cry   from'  out    the   loneliness — oh,    listen, 
Honey,  listen  ! 
Do  you  hear  it,  do  you  fear  it,  you're  a-holding  of 
me  so  ? 
You're  a-sobbing  in  your  sleep,  dear,  and  your  lashes, 
how  they  glisten — 
Do  you  hear  the  Little  Voices  all  a-begging  me  to 
go? 

All  a-begging  me  to  leave  you.     Day  and  night  they're 
pleading,  praying. 
On  the  North-wind,    on  the  West-wind,   from    the 
peak  and  from  the  plain  ; 
Night  and  day  they  never  leave  me — do  you  know  what 
they  are  saying  ? 
*  *  He  was  ours  before  you  got  him,  and  we  want  him 
once  again." 

Yes,  they're  wanting  me,    they're  haunting  me,  the 
awful  lonely  places  ; 
They're  whining  and  they're  whimpering  as  if  each 
had  a  soul ; 

38 


THE  LURE  OF  LITTLE  VOICES 

They're  calling  from  the  wilderness,  the  vast  and  God- 
like spaces, 
The  stark  and  sullen  solitudes  that  sentinel  the  Pole. 

They  miss  my  little  camp-fires,  ever  brightly,  bravely 
gleaming 
In  the  womb  of  desolation,  where  was  never  man 
before  ; 
As  comradeless   I  sought  them,  lion-hearted,  loving, 
dreaming, 
And  they  hailed  me  as  a  comrade,  and  they  loved  me 
evermore. 

And  now  they're  all  a-crying,  and  it's  no  use  me  denying; 
The  spell  of  them  is  on  me  and  I'm   helpless  as  a 
child  ; 
My  heart  is  aching,  aching,  but  I  hear  them,  sleeping, 
waking  ; 
It's  the  Lure  of  Little  Voices,  it's  the  mandate  of 
the  Wild. 

I'm  afraid  to  tell  you.  Honey,  I  can  take  no  bitter 
leaving ; 
But  softly  in  the  sleep -time  from  your  love  I'll  steal 
away. 
Oh,  it's  cruel,  dearie,  cruel,  and  it's  God  knows  how 
I'm  grieving  ; 
But  His  loneliness  is  calling,  and  He  knows  I  mus) 
obey. 

39 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WAGE-SLAVE 

When  the  long,  long  day  is  over,  and  the  Big  Boss 

gives  me  my  pay, 
I  hope  that  it  won't  be  hell-fire,  as  some  of  the  parsons 

say. 
And  I  hope  that  it  won't  be  heaven,  with  some  of  the 

parsons  I've  met — 
All  I  want  is  just  quiet,  just  to  rest  and  forget. 
Look  at  my  face,  toil-furrowed ;  look  at  my  calloused 

hands; 
Master,  I've  done  Thy  bidding,  wrought  in  Thy  many 

lands — 
Wrought  for  the  little  masters,  big-bellied  they  be,  and 

rich ; 
I've  done  their  desire  for  a  daily  hire,  and  I  die  like  a 

dog  in  a  ditch. 
I  have  used  the  strength  Thou  hast  given,  Thou  know- 

est  I  did  not  shirk ; 
Threescore  years  of  labor — Thine  be  the   long  day's 

work. 

40 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WAGE-SLAVE 

And  now,  Big  Master,  I'm  broken  and  bent  and  twisted 

and  scarred, 
But  I've  held  my  job,  and  Thou  knowest,  and  Thou 

wilt  not  judge  me  hard. 
Thou  knowest  my  sins  are  many,  and  often  I've  played 

the  fool — 
Whiskey  and  cards  and  women,    they  made  me  the 

devil's  tool. 
I  was  just  like  a  child  with  money ;   I  flung  it  away 

with  a  curse. 
Feasting   a   fawning    parasite,    or    glutting   a    harlot's 

purse ; 
Then  back  to  the  woods  repentant,  back  to  the  mill  or 

the  mine, 
I,  the  worker  of  workers,  everything  in  my  line. 
Everything  hard  but  headwork   (I'd  no  more    brains 

than  a  kid), 
A  brute  with  brute  strength  to  labor,  doing  as  I  was 

bid; 
living  in  camps  with  men-folk,  a  lonely  and  loveless 

life; 
Never    knew    kiss    of    sweetheart,    never    caress    of 

wife. 
A  brute  with  brute  strength  to  labor,  and  they  were  so 

far  above — 
Yet  I'd  gladly  have  gone  to  the  gallows  for  one  little 

look  of  Love. 
I,  with  the  strength  of  two  men,  savage  and  shy  and 

wild — 

41 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WAGE-SLAVE 

Yet  how  I'd  ha'  treasured  a  woman,  and  the  sweet, 

warm  kiss  of  a  child  ! 
Well,  'tis  Thy  world,  and  Thou  knowest.     I  blaspheme 

and  my  ways  be  rude  ; 
But  I've  lived  my  life  as  I  found  it,  and  I've  done  my 

best  to  be  good  ; 
I,  the  primitive  toiler,  half  naked  and  grimed  to  the 

eyes, 
Sweating  it  deep  in  their  ditches,  swining  it  stark  in 

their  styes ; 
Hurling  down  forests  before  me,  spanning  tumultuous 

streams ; 
Down  in  the  ditch  building  o'er  me  palaces  fairer  than 

dreams ; 
Boring  the  rock  to  the  ore-bed,  driving  the  road  through 

the  fen, 
Resolute,  dumb,  uncomplaining,  a  man  in  a  world  of 

men. 
Master,  I've  filled  my  contract,  wrought  in  Thy  many 

lands  j 
Not  by  my  sins  wilt  Thou  judge  me,  but  by  the  work 

of  my  hands. 
Master,  I've  done  Thy  bidding,  and  the  light  is  low  in 

the  west, 
And  the  long,  long  shift  is  over  .   .  .   Master,  I've 

earned  it — Rest. 


42 


GRIN 

If   you* re   up   against  a   bruiser  and    you're   getting 
knocked  about — 

Grin. 
If  you're  feeling  pretty  groggy,  and  you're  licked  be- 
yond a  doubt — 

Grin. 
Don't  let  him  see  you're  funking,  let  him  know  with 

every  clout. 
Though  your  face  is  battered  to  a  pulp,  your  blooming 

heart  is  stout ; 
Just  stand  upon  your  pins  until  the  beggar  knocks  you 
out — . 

And  grin. 

This  life's  a  bally  battle,  and  the  same  advice  holds 
true 

Of  grin. 
If  you're  up  against  it  badly,  then  it's  only  one  on  you. 

So  grin. 
If  the  future's  black  as  thunder,  don't  let  people  see 
you're  blue ; 

43 


GRIN 

Just  cultivate  a  cast-iron  smile  of  joy  the  whole  day 

through ; 
If  they  call  you  '*  Little  Sunshine,"  wish  that  they* d 

no  troubles,  too — 

You  may — grin. 

Rise  up  in  the  morning  with  the  will  that,  smooth  or 

rough, 

You'll  grin. 
Sink  to  sleep  at  midnight,  and  although  you're  feeling 

tough, 

Yet  grin. 
There's  nothing  gained  by  whining,  and  you're  not  that 

kind  of  stuff ; 
You're  a  fighter  from  away  back,  and  you  wotCt  take 

a  rebuff"; 
Your  trouble  is  that  you  don't  know  when  you  have 

had  enough — 

Don't  give  in. 
If  Fate  should  down  you,  just  get  up  and  take  another 

cuff; 
You  may  bank  on  it  that  there  is  no  philosophy  like 

bluff, 

And  grin. 


44 


THE  SHOOTING  OF  DAN  McGREW 

A  bunch  of  the  boys  were  whooping  it  up  in  the 
Malamute  saloon ; 

The  kid  that  handles  the  music-box  was  hitting  a  jag- 
time  tune ; 

Back  of  the  bar,  in  a  solo  game,  sat  Dangerous  Dan 
McGrew, 

And  watching  his  luck  was  his  light -o'  -love,  the  lady 
that's  known  as  Lou. 

When  out  of  the  night,  which  was  fifty  below,  and  into 
the  din  and  the  glare. 

There  stumbled  a  miner  fresh  from  the  creeks,  dog- 
dirty,  and  loaded  for  bear. 

He  looked  like  a  man  with  a  foot  in  the  grave  and 
scarcely  the  strength  of  a  louse. 

Yet  he  tilted  a  poke  of  dust  on  the  bar,  and  he  called 
for  drinks  for  the  house. 

There  was  none  could  place  the  stranger's  face,  though 
we  searched  ourselves  for  a  clue ; 

But  we  drank  his  health,  and  the  last  to  drink  was 
Dangerous  Dan  McGrew. 

45 


THE  SHOOTING  OF  DAN  McGREW 

There's  men  that  somehow  just  grip  your  eyes,  and 

hold  them  hard  like  a  spell ; 
And  such  was  he,  and  he  looked  to  me  like  a  man  who 

had  lived  in  hell ; 
With  a  face  most  hair,  and  the  dreary  stare  of  a  dog 

whose  day  is  done, 
As  he  watered  the  green  stuff  in  his  glass,  and  the 

drops  fell  one  by  one. 
Then  I  got  to  figgering  who  he  was,  and  wondering 

what  he'd  do, 
And  I  turned  my  head — and  there  watching  him  was 

the  lady  that's  known  as  Lou. 

His  eyes  went  rubbering  round  the  room,  and  he  seemed 
in  a  kind  of  daze. 

Till  at  last  that  old  piano  fell  in  the  way  of  his  wan- 
dering gaze. 

The  rag-time  kid  was  having  a  drink  ;  there  was  no  one 
else  on  the  stool. 

So  the  stranger  stumbles  across  the  room,  and  flops 
down  there  like  a  fool. 

In  a  buckskin  shirt  that  was  glazed  with  dirt  he  sat, 
and  I  saw  him  sway ; 

Then  he  clutched  the  keys  with  his  talon  hands — my 
God  !  but  that  man  could  play. 

Were  you  ever  out  in  the  Great  Alone,  when  the  moon 

was  awful  clear. 
And  the  icy  mountains  hemmed  you  in  with  a  silence 

you  most  could  hear ; 

46 


THE  SHOOTING  OF  DAN  McGREW 

With  only  the  howl  of  a  timber  wolf,  and  you  camped 

there  in  the  cold, 
A  half-dead  thing  in  a  stark,  dead  world,  clean  mad 

for  the  muck  called  gold  ; 
While  high  overhead,  green,  yellow  and  red,  the  North 

Lights  swept  in  bars  ? — 
Then  you've  a  haunch  what  the  music  meant    .    .    . 

hunger  and  night  and  the  stars. 

And  hunger  not  ot  the  belly  kind,  that's  banished  with 

bacon  and  beans. 
But  the  gnawing  hunger  of  lonely  men  for  a  home  and 

all  that  it  means  ; 
For  a  fireside  far  from  the  cares  that  are,    four  walls 

and  a  roof  above ; 
But  oh  !  so  cramful  of  cosy  joy,  and  crowned  with  a 

woman's  love — 
A  woman  dearer  than  all  the  world,  and  true  as  Heaven 

is  true — 
(God  !  how  ghastly  she  looks  through  her  rouge, — the 

lady  that's  known  as  Lou.) 

Then  on  a  sudden  the  music  changed,  so  soft  that  you 

scarce  could  hear ; 
But  you  felt  that  your  life  had  been  looted  clean  of 

all  that  it  once  held  dear  ; 
That  someone  had  stolen  the  woman  you  loved ;  that 

her  love  was  a  devil's  lie  ; 
That  your  guts  were  gone,  and  the  best  for  you  was  to 

crawl  away  and  die. 

47 


THE  SHOOTING  OF  DAN  McGREW 

*Twas  the  crowning  cry  of  a  heart's  despair,  and  it 
thrilled  you  through  and  through — 

**I  guess  I'll  make  it  a  spread  misere,"  said  Dangerous 
Dan  McGrew. 

The  music  almost  died  away  .   .   .  then  it  burst  like  a 

pent-up  flood ; 
And  it  seemed  to  say,  *' Repay,  repay,"  and  my  eyes 

were  blind  with  blood. 
The  thought  came  back  of  an  ancient  wrong,  and  it 

stung  like  a  frozen  lash. 
And  the  lust  awoke  to  kill,  to  kill  .   .   .  then  the  music 

stopped  with  a  crash, 
And  the  stranger  turned,  and  his  eyes  they  burned  in 

a  most  peculiar  way  ; 
In  a  buckskin  shirt  that  was  glazed  with  dirt  he  sat, 

and  I  saw  him  sway  j 
Then  his  lips  went  in  in  a  kind  of  grin,  and  he  spoke, 

and   his  voice  was  calm. 
And  * '  Boys, ' '  says  he,  *  *  you  don' t  know  me,  and  none 

of  you  care  a  damn ; 
But  I  want  to  state,  and  my  words  are  straight,  and  I'll 

bet  my  poke  they're  true. 
That  one  of  you  is  a  hound  of  hell  .  .   .  and  that  one 

is  Dan  McGrew." 

Then  I  ducked  my  head,  and  the  lights  went  out,  and 

two  guns  blazed  in  the  dark. 
And  a  woman  screamed,  and  the  lights  went  up,  and 

two  men  lay  stiff  and  stark. 

a8 


THE  SHOOTING  OF  DAN  McGREW 

Pitched  on  his  head,  and  pumped  full  of  lead,  was  Dan- 
gerous Dan  McGrew, 

While  the  man  from  the  creeks  lay  clutched  to  the 
breast  of  the  lady  that's  known  as  Lou. 

These  are  the  simple  facts  of  the  case,  and  I  guess  I 

ought  to  know. 
They  say  that  the  stranger  was  crazed  with  * '  hooch, '  * 

and  I'm  not  denying  it's  so. 
I'm  not  so  wise  as  the  lawyer  guys,  but  strictly  between 

us  two — 
The  woman  that  kissed  him  and — pinched  his  poke — • 

was  the  lady  that's  known  as  Lou. 


49 


THE  CREMATION  OF  SAM  McGEE 

There  are  strange  things  done  in  the  midnight  sun 

By  the  men  who  moil  for  gold ; 
The  Arctic  trails  have  their  secret  tales 

That  would  make  your  blood  run  cold  ; 
The  Northern  Lights  have  seen  queer  sights j 

But  the  queerest  they  ever  did  see 
Was  that  night  on  the  marge  of  Lake  Lebarge 

I  cremated  Sam  McGee. 

Now  Sam  McGee  was  from  Tennessee,  where  the  cotton 

blooms  and  blows. 
Why  he  left  his  home  in  the  South  to  roam  'round  the 

Pole,  God  only  knows. 
He  was  always  cold,  but  the  land  of  gold  seemed  to 

hold  him  like  a  spell ; 
Though  he'd  often  say  in  his  homely  way  that  '*  he'd 

sooner  live  in  hell. ' ' 

On  a  Christmas  Day  we  were  mushing  our  way  over 

the  Dawson  trail. 
Talk  of  your  cold  !  through  the  parka's  fold  it  stabbed 

like  a  driven  nail. 

50 


THE  CREMATION  OF  SAM  McGEE 

If  our  eyes  we'd  close,  then  the  lashes  froze  till  some- 
times we  couldn't  see ; 

It  wasn't  much  fun,  but  the  only  one  to  whimper  was 
Sam  McGee. 


And  that  very  night,  as  we  lay  packed  tight  in  our  robes 

beneath  the  snow. 
And  the  dogs  were  fed,  and  the  stars  o'erhead  were 

dancing  heel  and  toe. 
He  turned  to  me,  and  "  Cap,"  says  he,  **  I'll  cash  in 

this  trip,  I  guess  ; 
And  if  I  do,  I'm  asking  that  you  won't  refuse  my  last 

request. ' ' 


Well,  he  seemed  so  low  that  I  couldn't  say  no  ;  then  he 

says  with  a  sort  of  moan  : 
**  It's  the  cursed  cold,  and  it's  got  right  hold  till  I'm 

chilled  clean  through  to  the  bone. 
Yet  'taint  being  dead — it's  my  awful  dread  of  the  icy 

grave  that  pains ; 
So  I  want  you  to  swear  that,  foul  or  fair,  you'll  cremate 

my  last  remains." 

A  pal's  last  need  is  a  thing  to  heed,  so  I  swore  I  would 

not  fail ; 
And  we  started  on  at  the  streak  of  dawn  ;  but  God  !  he 

looked  ghastly  pale. 

51 


THE  CREMATION  OF  SAM  McGEE 

He  crouched  on  the  sleigh,  and  he  raved  all  day  of  his 

home  in  Tennessee ; 
And  before  nightfall  a  corpse  was  all  that  was  left  of 

Sam  McGee. 


There  wasn't  a  breath  in  that  land  of  death,  and  I 

hurried,  horror-driven. 
With  a  corpse  half  hid  that  I  couldn't  get  rid,  because 

of  a  promise  given  ; 
It  was  lashed  to  the  sleigh,  and  it  seemed  to  say :  *  *  You 

may  tax  your  brawn  and  brains. 
But  you  promised  true,  and  it's  up  to  you  to  cremate 

those  last  remains." 


Now  a  promise  made  is  a  debt  unpaid,  and  the  trail  has 

its  own  stern  code. 
In  the  days  to  come,  though  my  lips  were  dumb,  in  my 

heart  how  I  cursed  that  load. 
In  the  long,  long  night,  by  the  lone  firelight,  while  the 

huskies,  round  in  a  ring. 
Howled  out  their  woes  to  the  homeless  snows — O  God  ! 

how  I  loathed  the  thing. 

And  every  day  that  quiet  clay  seemed  to  heavy  and 

heavier  grow ; 
And  on  I  went,  though  the  dogs  were  spent  and  the 

grub  was  getting  low  ; 

52 


THE  CREMATION  OF  SAM  McGEE 

The  trail  was  bad,  and  I  felt  half  mad,  but  I  swore  I 
would  not  give  in  ; 

And  I'd  often  sing  to  the  hateful  thing,  and  it  heark- 
ened with  a  grin. 


Till  I  came  to  the  marge  of  Lake  Lebarge,  and  a  dere- 
lict there  lay ; 

It  was  jammed  in  the  ice,  but  I  saw  in  a  trice  it  was 
called  the  **  Alice  May." 

And  I  looked  at  it,  and  I  thought  a  bit,  and  I  looked  at 
my  frozen  chum ; 

Then  *^  Here,"  said  I,  with  a  sudden  cry,  <Ms  my  cre- 
raa-tor-eum." 


Some  planks  I  tore  from  the  cabin  floor,  and  I  lit  the 

boiler  fire ; 
Some  coal  I  found  that  was  lying  around,  and  I  heaped 

the  fuel  higher ; 
The  flames  just  soared,  and  the  furnace  roared — such 

a  blaze  you  seldom  see  ; 
And  I  burrowed  a  hole  in  the  glowing  coal,  and  I 

stuffed  in  Sam  McGee. 


Then  I  made  a  hike,  for  I  did'nt  like  to  hear  him  sizzle 

so; 
And  the  heavens  scowled,  and  the  huskies  howled,  and 

the  wind  began  to  blow. 

53 


THE  CREMATION  OF  SAM  McGEE 

It  was   icy  cold,  but  the  hot  sweat  rolled  down  my 

cheeks,  and  I  don't  know  why  ; 
And  the  greasy  smoke  in  an  inky  cloak  went  streaking 

down  the  sky. 

I  do  not  know  how  long  in  the  snow  I  wrestled  with 

grisly  fear ; 
But  the  stars  came  out  and  they  danced  about  ere  again 

I  ventured  near ; 
I  was  sick  with  dread,  but  I  bravely  said :   ''I'll   just 

take  a  peep  inside. 
I  guess  he's  cooked,  and  it's  time  I  looked;"   .  .  . 

then  the  door  I  opened  wide. 

And  there  sat  Sam,  looking  cool  and  calm,  in  the  heart 

of  the  furnace  roar ; 
And  he  wore  a  smile  you  could  see  a  mile,  and  he  said  : 

' '  Please  close  that  door. 
It's  fine  in  here,  but  I  greatly  fear  you'll  let  in  the  cold 

and  storm — 
Since  I  left  Plumtree,  down  in  Tennessee^  it's  the  first 

time  I've  been  warm." 

There  are  strange  things  done  in  the  midnight  stm 

By  the  men  who  moil  for  gold ; 
The  Arctic  trails  have  their  secret  tales 

That  would  make  your  blood  run  cold ; 
The  Northern  Lights  have  seen  queer  sights, 

But  the  queerest  they  ever  did  see 
Was  that  night  on  the  marge  of  Lake  Lebarge 

I  cremated  Sam  McGee. 

54 


MY  MADONNA 

I  haled  me  a  woman  from  the  street, 

Shameless,  but,  oh,  so  fair  ! 
I  bade  her  sit  in  the  model's  seat 

And  I  painted  her  sitting  there. 

I  hid  all  trace  of  her  heart  unclean  ; 

I  painted  a  babe  at  her  breast ; 
I  painted  her  as  she  might  have  been 

If  the  Worst  had  been  the  Best. 

She  laughed  at  my  picture  and  went  away. 

Then  came,  with  a  knowing  nod, 
A  connoisseur,  and  I  heard  him  say ; 

**  'Tis  Mary,  the  Mother  of  God.'* 

So  I  painted  a  halo  round  her  hair, 

And  I  sold  her  and  took  my  fee, 
And  she  hangs  in  the  church  of  Saint  Hillaire, 

Where  you  and  all  may  see. 


55 


UNFORGOTTEN 

I  know  a  garden  where  the  lilies  gleam, 

And  one  who  lingers  in  the  sunshine  there  ; 
She  is  than  white-stoled  lily  far  more  fair, 

And  oh,  her  eyes  are  heaven-lit  with  dream  ! 

I  know  a  garret,  cold  and  dark  and  drear, 
And  one  who  toils  and  toils  with  tireless  pen, 
Until  his  brave,  sad  eyes  grow  weary — then 

He  seeks  the  stars,  pale,  silent  as  a  seer. 

And  ah,  it's  strange ;  for,  desolate  and  dim. 
Between  these  two  there  rolls  an  ocean  wide  ; 
Yet  he  is  in  the  garden  by  her  side 

And  she  is  in  the  garret  there  with  him. 


56 


THE  RECKONING 

It's  fine  to  have  a  blow-out  in  a  fancy  restaurant, 
With  terrapin  and  canvas-back  and  all  the  wine  you 

want; 
To  enjoy  the  flowers  and  music,  watch  the  pretty  women 

pass. 
Smoke  a  choice  cigar,  and  sip  the  wealthy  water  in  your 

glass. 
It's  bully  in  a  high-toned  joint  to  eat  and  drink  your 

fill, 
But  it's  quite  another  matter  when  you 

Pay  the  bill. 

It's  great  to  go  out  every  night  on  fim  or  pleasure  bent ) 
To  wear  your  glad  rags  always  and   to  never  save  a 

cent ; 
To  drift  along  regardless,  have  a  good  time  every  trip ; 
To  hit  the  high  spots  sometimes,  and  to  let  your  chances 

slip; 
To  know  you're  acting  foolish,  yet  to  go  on  fooling  still. 
Till  Nature  calls  a  show-down,  and  you 

Pay  the  bill. 

57 


THE  RECKONING 

Time  has  got  a  little  bill — get  wise  while  yet  you  may. 
For  the  debit  side's  increasing  in  a  most  alarming  way ; 
The  things  you  had  no  right  to  do,   the  things  you 

should  have  done, 
They're  all  put  down ;  it's  up  to  you  to  pay  for  every 

one. 
So  eat,  drink  and  be  merry,  have  a  good  time  if  you 

will. 
But  God  help  you  when  the  time  comes,  and  you 

Foot  the  bill. 


58 


QUATRAINS 

One  said :  Thy  life  is  thine  to  make  or  mar, 
To  flicker  feebly,  or  to  soar,  a  star  ; 

It  lies  with  thee — the  choice  is  thine,  is  thine, 
To  hit  the  ties  or  drive  thy  auto-car. 

I  answered  Her  i  The  choice  is  mine — ah,  no  t 
We  all  were  made  or  marred  long,  long  ago. 

The  parts  are  written  ;  hear  the  super  wail : 
**  Who  is  stage-managing  this  cosmic  show  ?** 

Blind  fools  of  fate  and  slaves  of  circumstance, 
Life  is  a  fiddler,  and  we  all  must  dance. 

From  gloom  where  mocks  that  will-o'-wisp,  Free-will, 
I  heard  a  voice  cry  :   *<  Say,  give  us  a  chance." 

Chance  !    Oh,  there  is  no  chance  !    The  scene  is  set. 
Up  with  the  curtain  !     Man,  the  marionette. 

Resumes  his  part.     The  gods  will  work  the  wires. 
They've  got  it  all  down  fine,  you  bet,  you  bet ! 

59 


QUATRAINS 

It's  all  decreed — the  mighty  earthquake  crash ; 
The  countless  constellations'  wheel  and  flash ; 
The  rise  and  fall  of  empires,  war's  red  tide; 
The  composition  of  your  dinner  hash. 

There's  no  haphazard  in  this  world  of  ours. 
Cause  and  effect  are  grim,  relentless  powers. 

They  rule  the  world.      (A  king  was  shot  last  night. 
Last  night  I  held  the  joker  and  both  bowers. ) 

From  out  the  mesh  of  fate  our  heads  we  thrust. 
We  can't  do  what  we  would,  but  what  we  must. 

Heredity  has  got  us  in  a  cinch — 
(Consoling  thought  when  you've  been  on  a  *^bust.'*) 

Hark  to  the  song  where  spheral  voices  blend : 
'* There's  no  beginning,  never  will  be  end." 
It  makes  us  nutty  ;  hang  the  astral  chimes  ! 
The  table's  spread ;   come,  let  us  dine,  my  friend. 


60 


THE  MEN  THAT  DONT  FIT  IN 


There's  a  race  of  men  that  don't  fit  in, 

A  race  that  can't  stay  still ; 
So  they  break  the  hearts  of  kith  and  kin. 

And  they  roam  the  world  at  will. 
They  range  the  field  and  they  rove  the  floods 

And  they  climb  the  mountain's  crest ; 
Theirs  is  the  curse  of  the  gypsy  blood, 

And  they  don't  know  how  to  rest. 

If  they  just  went  straight  they  might  go  far ; 

They  are  strong  and  brave  and  true  j 
But  they're  always  tired  of  the  things  that  are, 

And  they  want  the  strange  and  new. 
They  say :   ' '  Could  I  find  my  proper  groove, 

What  a  deep  mark  I  would  make  !  ' ' 
So  they  chop  and  change,  and  each  fresh  move 

Is  only  a  fresh  mistake. 

6i 


THE  MEN  THAT  DONT  FIT  IN 

And  each  forgets,  as  he  strips  and  runs 

With  a  brilliant,  fitful  pace, 
It's  the  steady,  quiet,  plodding  ones 

Who  win  in  the  lifelong  race. 
And  each  forgets  that  his  youth  has  fled, 

Forgets  that  his  prime  is  past. 
Till  he  stands  one  day,  with  a  hope  that's  dead, 

In  the  glare  of  the  truth  at  last. 

He  has  failed,  he  has  failed ;  he  has  missed  his 
chance ; 

He  has  just  done  things  by  half. 
Life's  been  a  jolly  good  joke  on  him. 

And  now  is  the  time  to  laugh. 
Ha,  ha  !  He  is  one  of  the  Legion  Lost ; 

He  was  never  meant  to  win  ; 
He's  a  rolling  stone,  and  it's  bred  in  the  bone  ; 

He's  a  man  who  won't  fit  in. 


62 


MUSIC  IN  THE  BUSH 

O'er  the  dark  pines  she  sees  the  silver  moon, 
And  in  the  west,  all  tremulous,  a  star ; 

And  soothing  sweet  she  hears  the  mellow  tune 
Of  cow-bells  jangled  in  the  fields  afar. 

Quite  listless,  for  her  daily  stent  is  done. 

She  stands,  sad  exile,  at  her  rose- wreathed  door. 

And  sends  her  love  eternal  with  the  sun 

That  goes  to  gild  the  land  she'll  see  no  more. 

The  grave,  gaunt  pines  imprison  her  sad  gaze, 
All  still  the  sky  and  darkling  drearily  ; 

She  feels  the  chilly  breath  of  dear,  dead  days 
Come  sifting  through  the  alders  eerily. 

Oh,  how  the  roses  riot  in  their  bloom  ! 

The  curtains  stir  as  with  an  ancient  pain  ; 
Her  old  piano  gleams  from  out  the  gloom 

And  waits  and  waits  her  tender  touch  in  vain. 

63 


MUSIC  IN  THE  BUSH 

But  now  her  hands  like  moonlight  brush  the  keys 
With  velvet  grace — melodious  delight ; 

And  now  a  sad  refrain  from  over  seas 
Goes  sobbing  on  the  bosom  of  the  night; 

And  now  she  sings.      (O  !  singer  in  the  gloom, 
Voicing  a  sorrow  we  can  ne'er  express, 

Here  in  the  Farness  where  we  few  have  room 
Unshamed  to  show  our  love  and  tenderness, 

Our  hearts  will  echo,  till  they  beat  no  more. 
That  song  of  sadness  and  of  motherland ; 

And,  stretched  in  deathless  love  to  England's  shore. 
Some  day  she'll  hearken  and  she'll  understand.) 

A  prima-donna  in  the  shining  past. 

But  now  a  mother  growing  old  and  gray, 

She  thinks  of  how  she  held  a  people  fast 

In  thrall,  and  gleaned  the  triumphs  of  a  day. 

She  sees  a  sea  of  faces  like  a  dream  ; 

She  sees  herself  a  queen  of  song  once  more  ; 
She  sees  lips  part  in  rapture,  eyes  agleam  ; 

She  sings  as  never  once  she  sang  before. 

She  sings  a  wild,  sweet  song  that  throbs  with  pain. 
The  added  pain  of  life  that  transcends  art — 

A  song  of  home,  a  deep,  celestial  strain. 
The  glorious  swan-song  of  a  dying  heart. 

64 


MUSIC  IN  THE  BUSH 

A  lame  tramp  comes  along  the  railway  track, 
A  grizzled  dog  whose  day  is  nearly  done  ; 

He  passes,  pauses,  then  comes  slowly  back 
And  listens  there — an  audience  of  one. 

She  sings — her  golden  voice  is  passion-fraught, 
As  when  she  charmed  a  thousand  eager  ears ; 

He  listens  trembling,  and  she  knows  it  not. 
And  down  his  hollow  cheeks  roll  bitter  tears. 

She  ceases  and  is  still,  as  if  to  pray ; 

There  is  no  sound,  the  stars  are  all  alight — 
Only  a  wretch  who  stumbles  on  his  way, 

Only  a  vagrant  sobbing  in  the  night. 


65 


THE   RHYME   OF  THE    REMITTANCE 

MAN 

There's  a  four-pronged  buck  a-swinging  in  the  shadow 
of  my  cabin, 
And  it  roamed  the  velvet  valley  till  to-day ; 
But  I  tracked  it  by  the  river,  and  I  trailed  it  in  the 
cover, 
And  I  killed  it  on  the  mountain  miles  away. 
Now   I've  had  my  lazy  supper,  and    the  level  sun  is 
gleaming 
On  the  water  where  the  silver  salmon  play ; 
And  I  light  my  little    corn-cob,  and   I  linger,   softly 
dreaming, 
In  the  twilight,  of  a  land  that's  far  away. 

Far  away,  so  faint  and  far,  is  flaming  London,  fevered 
Paris, 
That  I  fancy  I  have  gained  another  star ; 
Far  away  the  din  and    hurry,   far  away  the  sin  and 
worry, 
Far  away — God  knows  they  cannot  be  too  far. 

66 


RHYME  OF  THE  REMITTANCE  MAN 

Gilded  galley-slaves  of  Mammon — how  my  purse-proud 
brothers  taunt  me  ! 
I  might  have  been  as  well-to-do  as  they 
Had  I  clutched  like  them  my  chances,  learned  their 
wisdom,  crushed  my  fancies. 
Starved  my  soul  and  gone  to  business  every  day. 

Well,   the  cherry  bends  with  blossom   and   the  vivid 
grass  is  springing. 
And  the  star-like  lily  nestles  in  the  green  ; 
And  the  frogs  their  joys  are  singing,  and  my  heart  in 
tune  is  ringing, 
And  it  doesn't  matter  what  I  might  have  been. 
While  above  the  scented  pine -gloom,  piling  heights  of 
golden  glory, 
The  sun -god  paints  his  canvas  in  the  west, 
I  can  couch  me  deep  in  clover,  I  can  listen  to  the  story 
Of  the  lazy,  lapping  water — it  is  best. 

While  the  trout  leaps  in  the  river,  and  the  blue  grouse 
thrills  the  cover. 
And  the  frozen  snow  betrays  the  panther's  track, 
And  the  robin  greets  the  dayspring  with  the  rapture  of 
a  lover, 
I  am  happy,  and  I'll  nevermore  go  back. 
For  I  know  I'd  just  be  longing  for  the  little  old  log 
cabin. 
With  the  morning-glory  clinging  to  the  door, 

67 


RHYME  OF  THE  REMITTANCE  MAN 

Till  I  loathed  the  city  places,  cursed  the  care  on  all  the 
faces, 
Turned  my  back  on  lazar  London  evermore. 

So  send  me  far  from  Lombard  Street,  and  write  me 
down  a  failure ; 
Put  a  little  in  my  purse  and  leave  me  free. 
Say  :   **  He  turned  from  Fortune's  offering  to  follow  up 
a  pale  lure, 
He  is  one  of  us  no  longer — let  him  be. '  * 
I  am  one  of  you  no  longer ;  by  the  trails  my  feet  have 
broken, 
The  dizzy  peaks  I've  scaled,  the  camp-fire's  glow ; 
By  the  lonely  seas  I've  sailed  in — yea,  the  final  word 
is  spoken, 
I  am  signed  and  sealed  to  nature.     Be  it  so. 


68 


THE  LOW-DOWN  WHITE 

This  is  the  pay-day  up  at  the  mines,  when  the  bearded 

brutes  come  down ; 
There's  money  to  burn  in  the  streets  to-night,  so  I've 

sent  my  klooch  to  town, 
With  a  haggard  face  and  a  ribband  of  red  entwined  in 

her  hair  of  brown. 

And  I  know  at  the  dawn  she'll  come  reeling  home  with 

the  bottles,  one,  two,  three — 
One  for  herself,  to  drown  her  shame,  and  two  big  bottles 

for  me. 
To  make  me  forget  the  thing  I  am  and  the  man  I  used 

to  be. 

To  make  me  forget  the  brand  of  the  dog,  as  I  crouch 

in  this  hideous  place  ; 
To  make  me  forget  once  I  kindled  the  light  of  love  in 

a  lady's  face. 
Where  even  the  squalid  Siwash  now  holds  me  a  black 

disgrace. 

69 


THE  LOW-DOWN  WHITE 

Oh,  I  have  guarded  my  secret  well  t  And  who  would 
dream  as  I  speak 

In  a  tribal  tongue  like  a  rogue  unhung,  'mid  the  ranch- 
house  filth  and  reek, 

I  could  roll  to  bed  with  a  Latin  phrase  and  rise  with 
a  verse  of  Greek  ? 

Yet  I  was  a  senior  prizeman  once,  and  the  pride  of  a 

college  eight ; 
Called  to  the  bar — my  friends  were  true !    but  they 

could  not  keep  me  straight ; 
Then  came  the  divorce,  and  I  went  abroad  and  '*  died  " 

on  the  River  Plate. 

But  I'm  not  dead  yet ;  though  with  half  a  lung  there 

isn't  time  to  spare. 
And  I  hope  that  the  year  will  see  me  out,  and,  thank 

God,  no  one  will  care — 
Save  maybe  the  little  slim  Siwash  girl  with  the  rose  of 

shame  in  her  hair. 

She  will  come  with  the  dawn,  and  the  dawn  is  near ;  i 

can  see  its  evil  glow, 
Like  a  corpse-light  seen  through  a  frosty  pane  in  a 

night  of  want  and  woe  ; 
And  yonder  she  comes  by  the  bleak  bull -pines,  swift 

staggering  through  the  snow. 


70 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  LOG  CABIN 

"WTien  a  man  gits  on  his  uppers  in  a  hard-pan  sort  of 
town, 
An'  he  ain't  got  nothin'  comin'  an'  he  can't  afford 
ter  eat, 
An'  he's  in  a  fix  for  lodgin'  an'  he  wanders  up  an' 
down, 
An'  you'd  fancy  he'd  been  boozin',  he's  so  locoed 
'bout  the  feet ; 
When  he's  feelin*  sneakin'  sorry  an'  his  belt  is  hangin' 
slack. 
An'  his  face  is  peaked  an'  gray-like  an'  his  heart  gits 
down  an'  whines. 
Then  he's  apt  ter  git  a-thinkin'  an'  a-wishin'  he  was 
back 
In  the  little  ol'  log  cabin  in  the  shadder  of  the  pines. 

When  he's   on  the    blazin'  desert  an'   his    canteen's 
sprung  a  leak. 
An'  he's  all  alone  an'  crazy  an'  he's  crawlin'  like  a 
snail, 

71 


THE  LITTLE  OLD  LOG  CABIN 

An'  his  tongue's  so  black  an'  swollen  that  it  hurts  him 
fer  to  speak, 
An'  he  gouges  down  fer  water  an'  the  raven's  on  his 
trail ; 
When  he's   done  with    care  and  cursin'  an'  he  feels 
more  like  to  cry, 
An'  he  sees  ol'  Death  a-grinnin'  an'  he  thinks  upon 
his  crimes, 
Then  he's  like  ter  hev'  a  vision,  as  he  settles  down  ter 
die, 
Of  the  little  ol'  log  cabin  an'  the  roses  an'  the  vines. 

Oh,  the  little  ol'  log  cabin,  it's  a  solemn  shinin'  mark, 
When  a  feller  gits  ter  sinnin'  an'  a-goin'  ter  the  wall, 
An*  folks  don't  understand  him  an'  he's  gropin'  in  the 
dark. 
An'  he's  sick  of  bein'  cursed  at  an'  he's  longin'  fer 
his  call ! 
When  the  sun  of  life's  a-sinkin'   you  can  see  it  'way 
above, 
On  the  hill  from  out  the  shadder  in  a  glory  'gin  the 
sky. 
An'  your  mother's  voice  is  callin',  an'  her  arms  are 
stretched  in  love. 
An'  somehow  you're  glad  you're  goin',  an'  you  ain't 
a-scared  to  die ; 
When  you'll  be  like  a  kid  again  an'  nestle  to  her  breast, 
An'  never  leave  its  shelter,  an'  forget,  an'  love,  an'  rest. 

72 


THE  YOUNGER  SON 

If  you  leave  the  gloom  of  London  and  you  seek  a  glow- 
ing land, 
Where  all  except  the  flag  is  strange  and  new, 
There's  a  bronzed  and  stalwart  fellow  who  will  grip  you 
by  the  hand, 
And  greet  you  with  a  welcome  warm  and  true ; 
For  he's  your  younger  brother,  the  one  you  sent  away 

Because  there  wasn't  room  for  him  at  home ; 
And  now  he's  quite  contented,  and  he's  glad  he  didn't 
stay, 
And  he's  building  Britain's  greatness  o'er  the  foam. 

When  the  giant  herd  is  moving  at  the  rising  of  the  sun. 
And  the  prairie  is  lit  with  rose  and  gold. 

And  the  camp  is  all  abustle,  and  the  busy  day's  begun, 
He  leaps  into  the  saddle  sure  and  bold. 

Through  the  round  of  heat   and   hurry,   through  the 
racket  and  the  rout, 
He  rattles  at  a  pace  that  nothing  mars ; 

73 


THE  YOUNGER  SON 

And   when   the    night- winds    whisper   and   camp-fires 
flicker  out, 
He  is  sleeping  like  a  child  beneath  the  stars. 

When  the  wattle -blooms  are  drooping  in  the  sombre 
shed- oak  glade, 
And  the  breathless  land  is  lying  in  a  swoon. 
He  leaves  his  work  a  moment,  leaning  lightly  on  his 
spade. 
And  he  hears  the  bell -bird  chime  the  Austral  noon. 
The    parrakeets   are   silent    in    the   gum-tree   by   the 
creek ; 
The  ferny  grove  is  sunshine -steeped  and  still ; 
But  the  dew  will  gem  the  myrtle  in  the  twilight  ere  he 
seek 
His  little  lonely  cabin  on  the  hill. 

Around  the  purple,  vine-clad   slope   the   argent  river 
dreams ; 
The  roses  almost  hide  the  house  from  view ; 
A  snow-peak  of  the  Winterberg  in  crimson  splendor 
gleams ; 
The  shadow  deepens  down  on  the  karroo. 
He  seeks  the  lily -scented  dusk  beneath  the  orange  tree; 

His  pipe  in  silence  glows  and  fades  and  glows ; 
And  then  two  little  maids  come  out  and  climb  upon  his 
knee, 
And  one  is  like  the  lily,  one  the  rose. 

74 


THE  YOUNGER  SON 

Vie  sees  his  white  sheep  dapple  o'er  the  green  New  Zea- 
land plain, 
And  where  Vancouver's  shaggy  ramparts  frown, 
When  the  sunlight  threads  the  pine -gloom  he  is  fighting 
might  and  main 
To  clinch  the  rivets  of  an  Empire  down. 
You  will  find  him  toiling,  toiling,  in  the  south  or  in 
the  west, 
A  child  of  nature,  fearless,  frank  and  free ; 
And  the  warmest  heart  that  beats  for  you  is  beating  in 
his  breast, 
And  he  sends  you  loyal  greeting  o'er  the  sea. 

You've  a  brother  in  the  army,  you've  another  in  the 
Church ; 
One  of  you  is  a  diplomatic  swell ; 
You've  had  the  pick  of  everything  and  left  him  in  the 
lurch, 
And  yet  I  think  he's  doing  very  well. 
I'm  sure  his  life  is  happy,  and  he  doesn't  envy  yours ; 

I  know  he  loves  the  land  his  pluck  has  won  ; 
And  I  fancy  in  the  years  unborn,  while  England's  fame 
endures. 
She  will  come  to  bless  with  pride — The  Younger  Son. 


75 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  DEAD 

The  cruel  war  was  over — oh,  the  triumph  was  so  sweet  I 
We  watched  the  troops  returning,  through  our  tears  : 
There  was  triumph,  triumph,  triumph  down  the  scarlet 
glittering  street. 
And  you  scarce  could  hear  the  music  for  the  cheers. 
And  you  scarce  could  see  the  house-tops  for  the  flags 
that  flew  between ; 
The  bells  were  pealing  madly  to  the  sky  ; 
And  everyone  was  shouting   for  the   Soldiers  of  the 
Queen, 
And  the  glory  of  an  age  was  passing  by. 

And  then  there  came  a  shadow,  swift  and  sudden,  dark 
and  drear ; 
The  bells  were  silent,  not  an  echo  stirred. 
The  flags  were  drooping  sullenly,  the  men    forgot  to 
cheer ; 
We  waited,  and  we  never  spoke  a  word. 
The  sky  grew  darker,  darker,  till  from  out  the  gloomy 
rack 
There  came  a  voice  that  checked  the  heart  with  dread : 

76 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  DEAD 

"Tear  down,  tear  down  your  bunting  now,  and  hang 
up  sable  black ; 
They  are  coming — it's  the  Army  of  the  Dead." 

They  were  coming,  they  were  coming,  gaunt  and  ghastly, 
sad  and  slow ; 
They  were  coming,  all  the  crimson  wrecks  of  pride  ; 
With  faces  seared,  and  cheeks  red  smeared,  and  haunt- 
ing eyes  of  woe. 
And  clotted  holes  the  khaki  couldn't  hide. 
Oh,   the  clammy  brow  of  anguish  !  the  livid,    foam- 
flecked  lips ! 
The  reeling  ranks  of  ruin  swept  along  ! 
The  limb  that  trailed,  the  hand  that  failed,  the  bloody 
finger  tips  ! 
And  oh,  the  dreary  rhythm  of  their  song  ! 

**They  left  us  on  the  veldt-side,  but  we  felt  we  couldn't 
stop 
On  this,  our  England's  crowning  festal  day  ; 
We're  the  men  of  Magersfontein,  we're  the  men  of 
Spion  Kop, 
Colenso — we're  the  men  who  had  to  pay. 
We're  the  men  who  paid  the  blood-price.     Shall  the 
grave  be  all  our  gain  ? 
You  owe  us.     Long  and  heavy  is  the  score. 
Then  cheer  us  for  our  glory  now,  and  cheer  us  for  our 
pain. 
And  cheer  us  as  ye  never  cheered  before." 

77 


THE  MARCH  OF  THE  DEAD 

The  folks  were  white  and  stricken,  and    each  tongue 
seemed  weighed  with  lead  ; 
Each  heart  was  clutched  in  hollow  hand  of  ice ; 
And  every  eye  was  staring  at  the  horror  of  the  dead, 

The  pity  of  the  men  who  paid  the  price. 
They  were  come,  were  come  to  mock  us,  in  the  first 
flush  of  our  peace ; 
Through  writhing  lips  their  teeth  were  all  agleam ; 
They  were  coming  in  their  thousands — oh,  would  they 
never  cease  ! 
I  closed  my  eyes,  and  then — it  was  a  dream. 

There  was  triumph,  triumph,  triumph  down  the  scarlet 
gleaming  street ; 
The  town  was  mad ;   a  man  was  like  a  boy. 
A  thousand  flags  were  flaming  where  the  sky  and  city 
meet; 
A  thousand  bells  were  thundering  the  joy. 
There  was  music,  mirth  and  sunshine  ;  but  some  eyes 
shone  with  regret ; 
And  while  we  stun  with  cheers  our  homing  braves, 
O  God,  in  Thy  great  mercy,  let  us  nevermore  forget 
The  graves  they  left  behind,  the  bitter  graves. 


78 


"FIGHTING  MAC" 

A  LIFE  TRAGEDY 

A  pistol  shot  rings  round  and  round  the  world  ; 

In  pitiful  defeat  a  warrior  lies. 
A  last  defiance  to  dark  Death  is  hurled, 

A  last  wild  challenge  shocks  the  sunlit  skies. 

Alone  he  falls,  with  wide,  wan,  woeful  eyes  : 
Eyes  that  could  smile  at  death — could  not  face  shame. 

Alone,  alone  he  paced  his  narrow  room, 
In  the  bright  sunshine  of  that  Paris  day ; 

Saw  in  his  thought  the  awful  hand  of  doom  ; 
Saw  in  his  dream  his  glory  pass  away  ; 
Tried  in  his  heart,  his  weary  heart,  to  pray  : 

"  O  God  !  who  made  me,  give  me  strength  to  face 

The  spectre  of  this  bitter,  black  disgrace. ' ' 


The  burn  brawls  darkly  down  the  shaggy  glen  ; 
The  bee -kissed  heather  blooms  around  the  door ; 


79 


"FIGHTING  MAG" 

He  sees  himself  a  barefoot  boy  again, 

Bending  o'er  page  of  legendary  lore. 

He  hears  the  pibroch,  grips  the  red  claymore, 
Runs  with  the  Fiery  Cross,  a  clansman  true, 
Sworn  kinsman  of  Rob  Roy  and  Roderick  Dhu. 

Eating  his  heart  out  with  a  wild  desire. 

One  day,  behind  his  counter  trim  and  neat, 

He  hears  a  sound  that  sets  his  brain  afire — 

The  Highlanders  are  marching  down  the  street. 
Oh,  how  the  pipes  shrill  out,  the  mad  drums  beat ! 

'*0n  to  the  gates  of  Hell,  my  Gordons  gay  !  " 

He  flings  his  hated  yardstick  far  away. 

He  sees  the  sullen  pass,  high -crowned  with  snow, 
Where  Afghans  cower  with  eyes  of  gleaming  hate 

He  hurls  himself  against  the  hidden  foe. 
They  try  to  rally — ah,  too  late,  too  late  ! 
Again,  defenseless,  with  fierce  eyes  that  wait 

For  death,  he  stands,  like  baited  bull  at  bay. 

And  flouts  the  Boers,  that  mad  Majuba  day. 

He  sees  again  the  murderous  Soudan, 

Blood-slaked  and  rapine-swept.     He  seems  to  stanci 

Upon  the  gory  plain  of  Omdurman. 

Then  Magersfontein,  and  supreme  command 
Over  his  Highlanders.     To  shake  his  hand 

A  King  is  proud,  and  princes  call  him  friend. 

And  glory  crowns  his  life— and  now  the  end, 

80 


"FIGHTING  MAC*' 

The  awful  end.     His  eyes  are  dark  with  doom ; 
He  hears  the  shrapnel  shrieking  overhead  ; 

He  sees  the  ravaged  ranks,  the  flame-stabbed  gloom. 
Oh,  to  have  fallen  1 — -the  battle-field  his  bed. 
With  Wauchope  and  his  glorious  brother-dead. 

Why  was  he  saved  for  this,  for  this  ?     And  now 

He  raises  the  revolver  to  his  brow. 


In  many  a  Highland  home,  framed  with  rude  art, 
You'll  find  his  portrait,  rough-hewn,  stern  and  square; 

It's  graven  in  the  Fuyam  fellah's  heart ; 
The  Ghurka  reads  it  at  his  evening  prayer ; 
The  raw  lands  know  it,  where  the  fierce  suns  glare  ; 

The  Dervish  fears  it.     Honor  to  his  name 

Who  holds  aloft  the  shield  of  England's  fame. 

Mourn  for  our  hero,  men  of  Northern  race  ! 

We  do  not  know  his  sin  ;  we  only  know 
His  sword  was  keen.     He  laughed  death  in  the  face, 

And  struck,  for  Empire's  sake,  a  giant  blow. 

His  arm  was  strong.     Ah  !  well  they  learnt,  the  foe. 
The  echo  of  his  deeds  is  ringing  yet — 
Will  ring  for  aye.     All  else     ...     let  us  forget. 


8i 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  ANGEL 

An  angel  was  tired  of   heaven,  as  he  lounged  in  the 

golden  street ; 
His  halo  was  tilted  sideways,  and  his  harp  lay  mute  at 

his  feet ; 
So  the  Master  stooped  in  His  pity,  and  gave  him  a  pass 

to  go, 
For  the  space  of  a  moon,  to  the  earth-world,  to  mix  with 

the  men  below. 

He  doffed  his  celestial  garments,  scarce  waiting  to  lay 

them  straight ; 
He  bade  good-by  to  Peter,  who  stood  by  the  golden 

gate; 
The  sexless  singers  of  heaven  chanted  a  fond  farewell, 
And  the  imps  looked  up  as  they  pattered  on  the  red-hot 

flags  of  hell. 

Never  was  seen  such  an  angel — eyes  of  a  heavenly  blue. 
Features  that  shamed  Apollo,  hair  of  a  golden  hue ; 
The   women    simply  adored  him ;    his  lips  were  like 

Cupid's  bow; 
But  he  never  ventured  to  use  them — and  so  they  voted 

him  slow. 

82 


THE  WOMAN  AND  THE  ANGEL 

Till  at  last  there  came  One  Woman,  a  marvel  of  love- 
liness, 

And  she  whispered  to  him  :  '*  Do  you  love  me  ? ' '  And 
he  answered  that  woman,  **  Yes." 

And  she  said:  '*Put  your  arms  around  me,  and  kiss 
me,  and  hold  me — so — " 

But  fiercely  he  drew  back,  saying :  *  *  This  thing  is 
wrong,  and  I  know." 

Then  sweetly  she  mocked  his  scruples,  and  softly  she 

him  beguiled : 
**  You,  who  are  verily  man  among  men,  speak  with  the 

tongue  of  a  child. 
We  have  outlived  the  old  standards  ;  we  have  burst,  like 

an  over-tight  thong, 
The  ancient,  outv/om.  Puritanic  traditions  of  Right  and 

Wrong." 

Then  the  Master  feared  for  His  angel,  and  called  him 

again  to  His  side. 
For  oh,  the  woman  was  wondrous,  and  oh,  the  angel 

was  tried  ! 
And  deep  in  his  hell  sang  the  Devil,  and  this  was  the 

strain  of  his  song  : 
"The  ancient,  outworn.  Puritanic  traditions  of  Right 

and  Wrong. ' ' 


83 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  RESTLESS  ONES 

We  couldn't  sit  and  study  for  the  law ; 

The  stagnation  of  a  bank  we  couldn't  stand ; 
For  our  riot  blood  was  surging,  and  we  didn't  need 
much  urging 

To  excitements  and  excesses  that  are  banned. 
So  we  took  to  wine  and  drink  and  other  things, 

And  the  devil  in  us  struggled  to  be  free  ; 
Till  our  friends  rose  up  in  wrath,  and  they  pointed  out 
the  path, 

And  they  paid  our  debts  and  packed  us  o'er  the  sea. 

Oh,  they  shook  us  off  and  shipped  us  o'er  the  foam, 
To  the  larger  lands  that  lure  a  man  to  roam  ; 

And  we  took  the  chance  they  gave 

Of  a  far  and  foreign  grave, 
And  we  bade  good -by  for  evermore  to  home. 

And  some  of  us  are  climbing  on  the  peak, 
And  some  of  us  are  camping  on  the  plain ; 

By  pine  and  palm  you'll  find  us,  with  never  claim  to 
bind  us, 
By  track  and  trail  you'll  meet  us  once  again. 

84 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  RESTLESS  ONES 

We  are  fated  serfs  to  freedom — sky  and  sea ; 

We  have  failed  where  slummy  cities  overflow ; 
But  the  stranger  ways  of  earth  know  our  pride  and 
know  our  worth, 

And  we  go  into  the  dark  as  fighters  go. 

Yes,  we  go  into  the  night  as  brave  men  go, 
Though  our  faces  they  be  often  streaked  with  woe ; 
Yet  we're  hard  as  cats  to  kill. 
And  our  hearts  are  reckless  still, 
And  we've  danced  with  death  a  dozen  times  or  so. 

And  you'll  find  us  in  Alaska  after  gold, 

And  you'll  find  us  herding  cattle  in  the  South. 
We  like  strong  drink  and  fun,  and,  when  the  race  is 
run. 

We  often  die  with  curses  in  our  mouth. 
We  are  wild  as  colts  unbroke,  but  never  mean  ; 

Of  our  sins  we've  shoulders  broad  to  bear  the  blame  ; 
But  we'll  never  stay  in   town  and  we'll   never  settle 
down. 

And  we'll  never  have  an  object  or  an  aim. 

No,  there's  that  in  us  that  time  can  never  tame ; 

And  life  will  always  seem  a  careless  game  ; 
And  they'd  better  far  forget — 
Those  who  say  they  love  us  yet— 

Forget,  blot  out  with  bitterness  our  name. 

85 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

It's  cruel  cold  on  the  water-front,  silent  and  dark  and 
drear ; 
Only  the  black  tide  weltering,  only  the  hissing  snow  ; 
And  I,  alone,  like  a  storm-tossed  wreck,  on  this  night 
of  the  glad  New  Year, 
Shuffling  along  in  the  icy  wind,  ghastly  and  gaunt 
and  slow. 

They're  playing  a  tune  in  McGuffy's  saloon,  and  it's 
cheery  and  bright  in  there 
(God !    but  I'm  weak — since  the  bitter  dawn,  and 
never  a  bite  of  food)  ; 
I'll  just  go  over  and  slip  inside — I  mustn't  give  way  to 
despair — 
Perhaps  I  can  bum  a  little  booze  if  the  boys  are  feel- 
ing good. 

They'll  jeer  at  me,  and  they'll  sneer  at  me,  and  they'll 
call  me  a  whiskey  soak  ; 
(**Have  a  drink?       Well,   thankee  kindly,   sir,  I 
don't  mind  if  I  do.") 

86 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

A  drivelling,  dirty,  gin-joint  fiend,  the  butt  of  the  bar- 
room joke  ; 
Sunk  and  sodden  and  hopeless — **  Another  ?    Well, 
here's  to  you  !'* 

McGuffy  is  showing  a  bunch  of  the  boys  how  Bob  Fitz- 
simmons  hit ; 
The  barman  is  talking  of  Tammany  Hall,  and  why 
the  ward  boss  got  fired. 
I'll  just  sneak  into  a  corner  and  they'll  let  me  alone  a 
bit; 
The  room  is  reeling  round  and  round  .    .    .  O  God  ! 
but  I'm  tired,  I'm  tired.  .  .   . 


Roses  she  wore  on  her  breast  that  night.     Oh,  but  their 
scent  was  sweet  ! 
Alone  we  sat  on  the  balcony,  and  the   fan-palms 
arched  above ; 
The  witching  strain  of  a  waltz  by  Strauss  came  up  to 
our  cool  retreat. 
And  I  prisoned  her  little  hand  in  mine,  and  I  whis- 
pered my  plea  of  love. 

Then  sudden  the  laughter  died  on  her  lips,  and  lowly 
she  bent  her  head ; 
And  oh,  there  came  in  the  deep,  dark  eyes  a  look  that 
was  heaven  to  see  j 

87 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

And  the  moments  went,  and  I  waited  there,  and  never 
a  word  was  said, 
And  she  plucked  from  her  bosom  a  rose  of  red  and 
shyly  gave  it  to  me. 

Then  the  music  swelled  to  a  crash  of  joy,  and  the  lights 
blazed  up  like  day, 
And  I  held  her  fast  to  my  throbbing  heart,  and  I 
kissed  her  bonny  brow. 
"She  is  mine,  she  is  mine  for  evermore  !  "  the  violins 
seemed  to  say, 
And  the  bells  were  ringing  the  New  Year  in — O  God  ! 
I  can  hear  them  now. 


Don' t  you  remember  that  long,  last  waltz,  with  its  sob- 
bing, sad  refrain  ? 
Don't  you  remember  that  last  good-by,  and  the  dear 
eyes  dim  with  tears  ? 
Don't  you  remember  that  golden  dream,  with  never  a 
hint  of  pain. 
Of  lives  that  would  blend  like  an  angel-song  in  the 
bliss  of  the  coming  years  ? 

Oh,  what  have  I  lost !     What  have  I  lost !     Ethel,  for- 
give, forgive  ! 
The  red,  red  rose  is  faded  now,  and  it's  fifty  years 
ago. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

'Twere  better  to  die  a  thousand  deaths  than  live  each 
day  as  I  live  ! 
I  have  sinned,  I  have  sunk  to  ihe  lowest  depths — 6ut 
oh,  I  have  suffered  so  ! 

Hark  !     Oh,  hark  !     I  can  hear  the  bells  !  .   .  .  Look  ! 
I  can  see  her  there. 
Fair  as  a  dream  .   .   .  but  it  fades  .   .   .  And  now — 
I  can  hear  the  dreadful  hum 
Of  the  crowded  court  .  .   .  See  !  the  Judge  looks  down 
.  .  .  Not  Guilty,  my  Lord,  I  swear  .  .  . 
The  bells — I  can  hear  the  bells  again   !  .   .  Ethel,  I 
come,  I  come  !  .  .   . 


''Rouse  up,  old  man,  it's  twelve  o'clock.     You  can't 
sleep  here,  you  know. 
Say!    ain't  you  got  no  sentiment?     Lift   up  your 
muddled  head ; 
Have  a  drink  to  the  glad  New  Year*  a  drop  before  you 
go— 
You  darned  old  dirty  hobo  .  .   .  My  God !     Here, 
boys!     He's  dead!  " 


89 


COMFORT 

Say !  You've  struck  a  heap  of  trouble — 

Bust  in  business,  lost  your  wife  ; 
No  one  cares  a  cent  about  you, 

You  don't  care  a  cent  for  life ; 
Hard  luck  has  of  hope  bereft  you. 

Health  is  failing,  wish  you'd  die — 
Why,  you've  still  the  sunshine  left  you 

And  the  big,  blue  sky. 


Sky  so  blue  it  makes  you  wonder 

If  it's  heaven  shining  through ; 
Earth  so  smiling  'way  out  yonder. 

Sun  so  bright  it  dazzles  you ; 
Birds  a-singing,  flowers  a-flinging 

All  their  fragrance  on  the  breeze ; 
Dancing  shadows,  green,  still  meadows — 

Don't  you  mope,  you've  still  got  these. 

90 


COMFORT 

These,  and  none  can  take  them  from  you ; 

These,  and  none  can  weigh  their  worth. 
What !  you're  tired  and  broke  and  beaten  ?- 

Why,  you're  rich — youVe  got  the  earth  ! 
Yes,  if  you're  a  tramp  in  tatters. 

While  the  blue  sky  bends  above 
You've  got  nearly  all  that  matters — 

You've  got  God,  and  God  is  love. 


91 


THE  HARPY 

There  was  a  woman,  and  she  was  wise;  woefully  wise 

was  she  ; 
She  was  old,  so  old,  yet  her  years  all  told  were  but  a 

score  and  three  ; 
And  she  knew  by  heart,  from  finish  to  start,  the  Book  of 

Iniquity. 

There  is  no  hope  for  such  as  I  on  earth,  nor  yet  in 

Heaven ; 
Unloved  I  live,  unloved  I  die,  unpitied,  unforgiven ; 
A  loathed  jade,  I  ply  my  trade,  unhallowed  and  un- 

shriven. 

I  paint  my  cheeks,  for  they  are  white,  and  cheeks  of 

chalk  men  hate ; 
Mine  eyes  with  wine  I  make  to  shine,  that  man  may 

seek  and  sate ; 
With  overhead  a  lamp  of  red  I  sit  me  down  and  wait 

Until  they  come,  the  nightly  scum,  with  drunken  eyes 
aflame  \ 

92 


THE  HARPY 

Your  sweethearts,  sons,  ye  scornful  ones — 'tis  I  who 

know  their  shame. 
The  gods,  ye  see,  are  brutes  to  me — and  so  I  play  my 

game. 

For  life  is  not  the  thing  we  thought,  and  not  the  thing 

we  plan  ; 
And  Woman  in  a  bitter  world  must  do  the  best  she  can — 
Must  yield  the  stroke,  and  bear  the  yoke,  and  serve 

the  will  of  man ; 

Must  serve  his  need  and  ever  feed  the  flame  of  his 

desire. 
Though  be  she  loved  for  love  alone,  or  be  she  loved  for 

hire; 
For  every  man  since  life  began  is  tainted  with  the  mire. 

And  though  you  know  he  love  you  so  and  set  you  on 

love's  throne; 
Yet  let  your  eyes  but  mock  his  sighs,  and  let  your  heart 

be  stone. 
Lest  you  be  left  (as  I  was  left)  attainted  and  alone. 

From  love's  close  kiss  to  hell's  abyss  is  one  sheer  flight, 

I  trow. 
And  wedding  ring  and  bridal  bell  are  will-o' -wisps  of 

woe. 
And  'tis  not  wise  to  love  too  well,  and  this  all  women 

know. 

93 


THE  HARPY 

Wherefore,  the  wolf-pack  having  gorged  upon  the  lamb, 

their  prey, 
With  siren  smile  and  serpent  guile  I  make  the  wolf -pack 

pay— 
With  velvet  paws  and  flensing  claws,  a  tigress  roused  to 

slay. 

One  who  in  youth   sought  truest   truth  and  found  a 

devil's  lies ; 
A  symbol  of  the  sin  of  man,  a  human  sacrifice. 
Yet  shall  I  blame  on  man  the  shame?     Could  it  be 

otherwise  ? 

Was  I  not  born  to  walk  in  scorn  where  others  walk  in 

pride  ? 
The  Maker  marred,  and,  evil-starred,  I  drift  upon  His 

tide; 
And  He  alone  shall  judge  His  own,  so  I  His  judgment 

bide. 

Fate  has  written  a  tragedy ;  its  name  is  ^^The  Human 

Heart:' 
The  Theatre  is  the  House  of  Life^  Woman  the  mummer' s 

part; 
The  Devil  enters  the  prompter' s  box  and  the  play  is  ready 

to  start. 


94 


PREMONITION 

'Twas  a  year  ago  and  the  moon  was  bright 

(Oh,  I  remember  so  well,  so  well); 
I  walked  with  my  love  in  a  sea  of  light, 

And  the  voice  of  my  sweet  was  a  silver  bell. 
And  sudden  the  moon  grew  strangely  dull, 

And  sudden  my  love  had  taken  wing  ; 

I  looked  on  the  face  of  a  grinning  skull, 

I  strained  to  my  heart  a  ghastly  thing. 

'Twas  but  fantasy,  for  my  love  lay  still 

In  my  arms,  with  her  tender  eyes  aglow. 
And  she  wondered  why  my  lips  were  chill. 
Why  I  was  silent  and  kissed  her  so. 

A  year  has  gone  and  the  moon  is  bright, 
A  gibbous  moon,  like  a  ghost  of  woe ; 
I  sit  by  a  new-made  grave  to-night. 

And  my  heart  is  broken — it's  strange,  you  know. 


95 


THE  TRAMPS 

Can  you  recall,  dear  comrade,  when  we  tramped  God's 
land  together, 
And  we  sang  the  old,  old  Earth-song,  for  our  youth 
was  very  sweet ; 
When  we  drank  and  fought  and  lusted,  as  we  mocked 
at  tie  and  tether. 
Along  the  road  to  Anywhere,  the  wide  world  at  our 
feet— 

Along  the  road  to  Anywhere,  when  each  day  had  its 
story  ; 
When  time  was  yet  our  vassal,  and  life's  jest  was 
still  unstale ; 
When  peace  un fathomed  filled  our  hearts  as,  bathed  in 
amber  glory. 
Along  the  road  to  Anywhere  we  watched  the  sunsets 
pale? 

96 


THE  TRAMPS 

Alas  !  the  road  to  Anywhere  is  pitfalled  with  disaster  ; 
There's  hunger,  want,  and  weariness,  yet  O  we  loved 
it  so  ! 
As  on  we  tramped  exultantly,  and  no  man  was  our 
master, 
And  no  man  guessed  what  dreams  were  ours,   as, 
swinging  heel  and  toe, 
We  tramped  the  road  to  Anywhere,  the  magic  road  to 
Anywhere, 
The  tragic  road  to  Anywhere,  such  dear,  dim  years 
ago. 


Q7 


L'ENVOI 

You  who  have  lived  in  the  land, 

You  who  have  trusted  the  trail, 
You  who  are  strong  to  withstand. 
You  who  are  swift  to  assail : 

Songs  have  I  sung  to  beguile^ 
Vintage  of  desperate  years. 
Hard  as  a  harlof  s  smile, 
Bitter  as  unshed  tears. 


Little  of  joy  or  mirth. 

Little  of  ease  I  sing; 
Sagas  of  men  of  earth 
Humanly  suffering, 

Such  as  you  all  have  done  ; 

Savagely  faring  forth, 
Sons  of  the  midnight  sun. 
Argonauts  of  the  North. 

98 


L'ENVOI 

Far  in  the  land  God  forgot 

Glimmers  the  lure  of  your  trail; 
Still  in  your  lust  are  you  taught 
Even  to  win  is  to  fail. 

Still  must  you  follow  and  fight 

Under  the  vampire  wing  ; 
There  in  the  long,  long  night 
Hoping  and  vanquishing. 


Husbandmen  of  the  Wild, 
Reaping  a  barren  gain  ; 
Scourged  by  desire,  reconciled 
Unto  disaster  and  pain; 

These,  my  songs,  are  for  you, 

You  who  are  seared  with  the  brand. 
God  knows  I  have  tried  to  be  true  ; 
Please  God  you  will  understand. 


99 


